The image of Death playing a game of chess with a human being, as a symbol of mortality, is a very old one in art and literature, dating at least as far back as the Middle Ages. Perhaps most famously of all, this motif appears in the Swedish cinema director Ingmar Bergman’s masterful 1957 film The Seventh Seal. Set during the time of the Black Death, the film tells the story of a world-weary medieval knight (portrayed by Max Von Sydow) who is returning from the Crusades. At one point, he encounters the Grim Reaper, and his life is wagered upon the game.
Taking nothing away from what may be Bergman’s greatest film, I can’t help but think that the allegory doesn’t quite ring true. As most of us have, or will, I have stood close to Death a time or two. Smelled his sour breath and seen his shadow fall across faces I care for. I can conceive of Him as many things – a prison camp guard, a cruel and manipulative serial seducer, faceless bureaucrat, a pitiless fascist, a soulless machine – but never a chess grandmaster.
For one thing, the game is all wrong. The motif of a chess game requires that humanity and Death be sitting opposite each other as ostensible equals. At the same table, at the same board, bound by fair and equal rules, the outcome to be determined by strategy and skill. When, in fact, the games we play with Death are invariably games of slim chance and dire misfortune. The crooked kind of games that you would expect to come across in a dodgy 1970s Las Vegas gambling joint. A kind of place where the drinks are watered down, the one-armed bandits are rigged, the dice are weighted, and the roulette wheels are connected to a kill switch concealed behind a one-way mirror. Not all the skills in the world will save you there, or help the numbers fall your way. The house is Death, and the house always wins in the end. Still, not playing the game is not an option, so we may as well sit ourselves down at the card table and see what happens next.
Of course, we can see right away that the dealer is keeping all the trump cards for himself. Illness, holocaust, misadventure, and despair. Making a big splashy show of shuffling them, too. Making them arc in the air like a rainbow of darkness.
And all we have in our hand are regular cards of red and black. The colours of blood and night. However, despite the gambling den’s gloomy lighting (or possibly because of it) the few face cards we hold seem to gleam with a beautiful intensity. A small collection of chance and hope held lightly in our fingers. The jack of diamonds radiates passion; the queen of hearts drops us a wink. Maybe there’s some water to be found here, after all.
So, what’s a poor gambler to do? Maybe we should just enjoy turning over these cards we’ve been dealt. By all means, we must play our cards close to the chest, if that is our style. But I hope we will also learn to play them close to our heart. Perhaps that way we can win a trick or two, before it’s time to cash in. Yes, the house always wins. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a few good lucky streaks along the way.